After Hours

Corinne's office smelled like eucalyptus hand lotion and something colder underneath it. She had my badge history pulled up on her monitor, highlighted in yellow — Tuesday, 6:47 p.m., long after the department emptied out.

"Just routine," she said, tapping a manicured nail against the screen. "We're required to review after-hours access for restricted storage. You were in the archive room past close twice this week."

"I was behind on scanning."

"Of course." Her smile didn't move. "Makes sense. I just wanted you to know we're keeping an eye on utilization. Efficiency review, nothing personal."

I said all the right things and left with my pulse in my throat.

That night I went back anyway. I told myself it was the last time — that I only needed to photograph what I'd already found, in case Box 47 disappeared the way the file for my father's accident had. I brought my phone, no bag, no laptop, nothing that would look deliberate if anyone stopped me in the hall.

I photographed the duplicate reports. The travel receipt. The empty folder with the sticky note. Priya's initials on the twelve-year-old memo. My hands were shaking hard enough that half the shots came out blurred and I had to take them twice.

I was on the last folder when I heard the outer door.

I killed my phone screen and pressed into the shadow between two shelving units, heart slamming, box lid balanced against my chest like a shield. Footsteps came down the aisle, slow, unhurried — someone who wasn't looking for anything in particular, or someone who already knew exactly where I was.

The footsteps stopped one aisle over.

A voice I recognized, low, almost gentle, said into the quiet: "I know you're in here, Naomi. It's not a good idea to be in here alone at night."

It was Gerald Voss.